The Way We Were
by lascia
Summary: "After being married for a couple of years, and with a toddler, Sansa gets suspicious about the Hound's fidelity." Prompt provided by ninna boo for the Comment Fic Meme 2 over at the LJ group 'sansa sandor'. Much gratitude to ninna boo for the inspiration! Warnings for language and a tiny hint of dub-con which goes nowhere.
1. Chapter 1

"He weren't in the stables, Milady. I asked the lads if they'd seen 'im but neither had, not since the sun were high. Jemmy says he took that great big horse. It could be that he's getting some air, Milady. You know these men don't like being cooped up in a henhouse, as much as they care for their lasses."

The serving woman stood in the doorway, her plump fingers nervously kneading the apron spread across her thick waist. When sure that her Lady would not reply she dipped her head and bobbed her knees, happy to leave the sorry, silent scene.

Hypnotised by the soft snowfall outside her window, Sansa did not notice the departure nor felt the tear that slipped down her cheek.

It was foolish to play the part of an unattached man in the Winter Town yet Sandor played it well, stroking his long fingers across the collarbone of a loose-laced whore. For five years he had been known to the townspeople as a man to be feared and obeyed. For four years he had been known as the Lord of Winterfell, husband to the russet-haired Lady Stark and for three he had been known as sire to the grey-eyed snow child, Wren. There was not a soul in the tavern that did not recognise the breadth of the man seated on the long bench with a beauty on his lap and a bevy in his paw.

For all the stares and whispers, Sandor did not care. He breathed against the neck of the tart he held close, inhaling her scent of sweat and spit. She cackled loudly and swore as good as any soldier, holding her ale close to ruddy breasts that threatened to spill over her dress each time she jiggled.

"Sing us anuva, Heg! How 'bout that one where the knight goes to stick his sword in a lass only to find she's a he with a sword of 'is own!" The whore slapped the thigh of the Lord she sat on as she guffawed, sloshing her drink over the both of them.

Flea chuckled and strummed his lute. "Aye, alright Flossie! Jus' for you and the Lord Master you're sittin' on!"

A young serving girl began to collect coin and fill the empty vessels as the singer Heg began his tune. In time the whole tavern sang along to the bawdy song, with the exception of the Lord and his purchase. As the room raced towards another chorus, Sandor stood, hoisting the wide-bottomed woman over his shoulder. He stepped over a bench and headed towards the stairs.

The whore called out as they ascended towards a vacant chamber, "Watch me drink, Sally! I'll be needing it after this feller is done with me!"


	2. Chapter 2

Morning crept into Sansa's chamber with a chill by its side. Though awake, she feared to open her eyes to the emptiness beside her. Another night she had spent alone. She could not shake the frozen fingers clutching at her heart.

When the serving woman knocked at the door to bring warm milk, Sansa made excuses of fatigue.

"Are you sure you're not carrying another babe, Milady? Only I was as tired as an old cat when I had me Tegwyn."

Sansa offered politeness and humour and good grace but when the woman had left she cried and fought against the thought that poisoned her mind.

_How could I carry another child when my husband no longer visits my bed?_

Walking through the cold yard with her child balanced on her hips, Sansa felt an age older than her twenty three moons. Around her the people of Winterfell worked in good spirits, not minding the chill with thoughts of hot broth to warm them. Many greeted her with cheer, some nodded their respect. Wren, made small and giant at once with her innocence, waved to all.

Though the castle was still being rebuilt Sansa could imagine it as it used to be, with its proud stones and fire-lit halls. At times the echo of her family called so loudly to her that she wondered if they were truly gone. Across the stone walls the shade of Bran balanced, calling calming words through laughter at Catelyn below. In the yard her elder brothers came to life in the tap-tap of wooden swords at play. Cake crumbs and grime on wee Wren's face summoned the spirit of Arya. By the Iron Gate she could see her father beckon to Rickon, pointing at a spider's web the span of Hodor's back. They were all there in some form or another, all of them, from Old Nan to the guards to the motherly cook who would sneak sweet treats to the children before bedtime.

She never expected to feel so alone in her own home.

The journey to Winterfell had taken its toll on Sansa. Some nights she still woke with heavy dreams of death chasing her, hunting her through tall grasses and thin trees. In such dreams she spoke softly to her mount, begging her to race forward, onward, North. The dreams used to end with Sandor's sword cutting down the faceless spectres and she would awake to his warm arms and hot breath.

She could not recall when he had last rescued her from her sleep. He no longer shared her bed.

Self-pity rose through her stomach and burned bile-bitter in her throat. She had heard all of the stories, told reassuringly and sweetly. It is to be expected that a man leave his wife's bed in search of another, they had said. You've been blessed with a fine child and he'll return to make more when ready, she had been told. Love is not a lifetime, dear girl, it lasts long enough to bind two people and build a home before it slowly dies out like a morning-lit fire. There is no shame in that, the old Septa had whispered gently, there is only shame in making a scene and pretending that the love is greater than it ever was.

Across the yard, Sansa could see her husband raking his fingers through a sample of pelts. Age had not touched him as it had his wife. The hardships they faced throughout their long journey to Winterfell had seemed to enrich the Hound, defining his strengths and forgiving his weaknesses. He stood tall in the muddied snow, dark hair long and slick in the damp. In her mother's arms Wren called out to her father in her song-like voice. Sandor glanced at his small family before nodding a farewell at the merchant with the cartload of furs.

"My Lady."

Thus it had been between husband and wife for some time. Wren squeaked and reached for the tall man and he took her, smiling.

"This lamb looks fit for the spit. Are you good for eating, little lamb?"

Wren squealed her protest as her father weighed her up. "A bit scrawny but she'll do in the depth of winter. What say you, my Lady?"

Sansa smiled at her daughter. "Aye, a little lamb shall be welcome at my table."

As Wren wriggled in her father's arms, Sansa took her chance to look at the man before her. He looked right back. She felt the heaviness of all she had lost and looked away.

"You did not return last night, my Lord. I was concerned for your wellbeing."

Sandor grunted and spat on the snow. "You do not need to waste your concerns on me."

"Where were you?"

Sansa had not dared ask the question before though it had scalded her throat and pushed at her lips. Her husband whistled at a passing maid and handed his child to her, bidding she take the young girl indoors. Sansa kissed her daughter twice in farewell before her husband grabbed her arm and led her towards the stables.

Alone amongst the horses, alone as they could be, Sansa spoke again.

"Sandor, where were you?"

Cold grey eyes stared at blue. "I won't lie to you Sansa."

"Tell me."

Sansa felt oddly affronted that he did not have the decency to sigh or look ashamed as he spoke. "I was in a tavern in the town."

"What did you do there?"

"Drink. Talk shit. Fuck."

"Fuck." The word stung as it crossed Sansa's lips. A thousand times it had danced in her mind, taunting her, carrying whispers from the servants and the markets and the dark corridors where nobody could see the Lady of Winterfell lingering, searching for the truth of her husband. She repeated it, testing the weight of it.

"Aye, wife. Fuck. I found a soft thighed whore and I fucked her. No risk of a bastard in her belly though so cast that worry from your pretty little head."

Sansa raised her arm to slap the man she once loved but the fight left her before she had opened her palm. She dropped her arm limply by her side.

"I am your wife."

"This is no secret."

The truth stood between them and Sansa knew not how to pass it. Her fears had come to life; the dark shadows that haunted her dreams had been revealed in the daylight. It almost seemed funny.

The dam was near breaking. Sansa spoke, breath catching in her throat, tongue thick with grief.

"For so long you were so very much to me. You opened my eyes to the cruelty of the world. You guarded me when so many wished to harm me. You led me home. In a thousand lifetimes I would not have believed that you would show me the same cruelty that you warned me against, that you would hurt me far greater than any man with a sword could, that you would pull down the home that we had worked so hard to build... You have been my truest friend and now I see that that too was a lie. You have broken me, Sandor Clegane, all for a tumble in a tavern."

Sandor glared at his little wife. Though he did not stand close to her, Sansa could feel the heat of his fury burning from his skin.

"Don't play the shamed wife with me, girl. It has been many moons since you pushed me from your bed, in need of me no longer. You've got your ruinous castle, your vassals and small folk, your wee babe. What more do you need of an old dog? I waited for you to remember me but you looked away towards your small council and your reparations to fucking farmers and your letters to old suitors."

Sansa could no longer hold back her tears. "You betrayed me because I was working to rebuild our home? If I do not do these tasks, who will Sandor? There is nobody left _but_ me. What did we come here for if not to rebuild Winterfell?"

"I came here for _you_ Sansa! I don't give a fuck about this pile of stone. I spit on this hole, I am almost driven to praying to the fucking gods that we had never come here. The day we came here was the day I lost you. I thought..." Sandor looked away, brow heavy.

Sansa felt as though she were watching herself through thick glass, her voice and face not her own. "What did you think, Sandor?"

Again he glared at his little wife. "I thought a child would bring you back. I was wrong. You've got your bleeding Winterfell, Sansa. All you've wanted, I've given you. Don't break down my door because I seek warmth from another when all you are willing to give me is ice."

He left her then, striding out into the snow, whistling for his dog. Sansa let the words spoken settle upon her and climb into her heart. She almost felt nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor scraped the mud and slush from his boots on a stone step before entering the Great Hall of Winterfell. Despite making the Northern keep his home he felt ill at ease in the formal buildings. He found warmth in the smaller chambers, in the stables and the armoury or in the open space of the yard. The Hall was home to ghosts with no cause to give peace to a man once known as the Hound who, in a moment of weakness, could feel their hollow gaze upon his face, weighing up his deeds. He strode towards the open hearth and sunk his weight into the great chair before it. The fire both startled him and drugged him; he soon succumbed to its hypnosis and fell into thought.

He was a man ill suited for reflection and contemplation. Though content to be left with his thoughts he rarely allowed himself to dwell or dig deeper. He did not search for understanding; he preferred his truths to be clear, without argument or opposition. When he thought on his life he did so with an ease of acceptance. His childhood was traumatic. His brother was a monster. He enjoyed violence. People were born, people lived, people died. These were facts that he could not dispute and had no wish to; wondering _why_ this lot had fallen to him was futile.

Sansa Stark had near changed everything.

She had forced him to adapt, to change, so frequently that at times he struggled to remember himself. At first, she caused him discomfort as she slowly crept under his skin. Her existence led him to question, to think before acting, to consider choosing honour over duty. As he watched her struggle in her cage at Kings Landing he could feel his soul take shape within him, pulsate and pull until he had no choice but to accept a new truth: he loved her.

For a time it was a simple love, so clean and pure that he could not think what to do with it. As nature smoothed her hard angles to soft curves, desire made itself known. He encountered a new type of battle and it was internal and cruel. Drinking helped some, as did wasted coin on scowling whores. Yet the more he saw of her the less control he felt over himself and it was that weakness that truly scared him more than any flame ever could. He resorted to denial, cutting her down with cold truth and fear until he discovered, unknown to even herself, that she was not afraid of him anymore.

Thus it was that on the night that Stannis Baratheon steered his ships towards the city, Sandor chose honour over duty and fled with his little bird. For months they had journeyed, fought and raced towards freedom. Every obstacle they conquered had corralled the unlikely pair closer together. Simple necessities such as sleeping close for warmth and touching hands for guidance evolved into simple pleasures. A nod grew to a smile which grew to a kiss which erupted into heart-bursting, toe-curling passion. Upon reaching Winterfell there was no question as to whether or not Sandor would stay. He was hers as she was his.

Sandor stopped himself. He was not ready to think on life beyond that. It was a wound that no Maester could tend to, that no words could describe. He could see no remedy. It was as though time was playing backwards, correcting itself. Of course it could not last. How could something so good thrive in the embrace of weeds? Each day forward in time chipped at the bond he shared with his wife. He could no longer speak kindness to her. His desire for her had been muted by the hollowness he felt. Yet when he saw her from afar he remembered the girl she had been, the woman she had become. He recalled her soft smile, her fingers dragging down his back as he made love to her, the half-hearted haughtiness she wore when she was maddened. It was then that he recalled that he loved her, that he felt the sharp tug of the love that connected them though they had drifted so very, very far apart.

The fire popped; the spell had been broken. Sandor rose from the chair and sought out his daughter.


	4. Chapter 4

As the sky pulled dusk over Winterfell, soft as a blanket, Sandor Clegane entered his daughter's nursery. The room was large and warm, walls hung with tapestries singing woven songs once loved by a little bird. A family of felt wolves lay strewn across the bedding; the softest, matted grey with yellow stitched eyes, had been propped at the head of the bed as if to oversee the adventures of its kin.

Seated by the red-dressed window, the thrice chinned nurse-maid hummed as she folded small clothes from a basket. At the sound of the Lord entering the room she raised her eyes and nodded her respect but did not rise and curtsy and flit about, much to the relief of the gruff man.

"I've come for my girl, Frieda."

The nurse-maid sucked at her cheek and jerked her head towards a curtained door. "You've made good time. The little lass in there has jus' been bathed. She'll be warm an' pink with rosewater for her papa."

Sandor snorted. "I'll take her shit brown and bawling; just put her in my arms woman." Frieda clucked and continued with her folding, knowing full well the bark of a dog worn tired. Half-heartedly Sandor considered walking through the curtain into the alcove that held a privy and basin. He could almost see his wife's lithe arms swaddling her child in her bedclothes. It was the thought of seeing Sansa, no doubt still enraged by their earlier encounter, which led him to instead sprawl back on the child's bed.

"She still washes her, then? Thought that's what we pay the likes of you and that young chit for."

The flabby woman stopped her folding. "Aye, Lady Sansa still tends to her daughter. She's a good mother to your Wren, though she isn't with her now. She asked Lilith to put the babe to bed. Do the young girl good, I think. Your lady wife with all her love doesn't give the young girl the chance to learn how to care for a babe. There'll be trouble when you have another, Lilith will be as good to you as a three-legged horse in a snowdrift."

The bed groaned as Sandor sat up. "Is my wife unwell? You should have sent word to me."

Sandor liked Frieda for her wit and truth, for all her chins and spreading girth. He liked the glint he saw in her weak eyes when he teased her as much as he liked the way her hen's egg chin jutted out when she told it straight. At any other time he would have laughed at the way she heaved herself up and, with her chin out, stared him in the eye.

"She well enough, milord. Dressed for riding – warm, mind, I made sure of that."

Laughing with the small girl in her arms, Lilith pulled back the curtain. "Here she is, Frieda! Spit clean and smilin', too. Oh! What's wrong with you then? You look a fright!"

Frieda stood wobbling on thick legs, staring at the open door which the dog worn tired had near broken off in his haste to find his wife. Oblivious to all, dozy with warmth, Wren smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

He found her in the stables, dark cloak pulled tight over her sloping shoulders. She stood quiet, worrying a tendril of her hair round her fingers as she waited for her horse to be readied. If she heard his exhalation of relief and exhaustion she did not show it.

"What the fuck are you doing Sansa? Boy, put that horse back and bugger off."

The young stable hand had been leading a doe-eyed horse towards Sansa. In hearing the voice of the Hound he stopped still and looked to Sansa, eyes wide and cheeks pink. Within a breath the boy seemed to take courage from the poise of the woman before him. Coughing, he handed the reins of the beast to his mistress.

"Your horse is saddled, milady."

"Thank you, Jemmy. Off to bed with you now."

The boy bobbed his head and left without a glance at the Lord of Winterfell. Sansa went to follow his example, stopped by a cold gaze and wide chest.

Sandor stared at his wife, silently questioning.

"I am riding to the Winter Town."

"For what purpose?"

"I wish to mingle with the people, speak with them. I want to see how they live each day."

"A task that can wait 'til morning. Take Wren with you to the market."

"I don't wish to go in the morning. I must go tonight."

"Sansa, I thought you to be a bright girl." His lip curled up as though the words spoken left bitterness in his mouth. "The people you wish to speak with are not like to be about in the dark."

Her voice rose with insistence, thin and glass-like. "I know exactly where they will be and it is there that I shall travel."

"Fuck your games, girl. Speak true to me." The time had passed for shouting. Sandor's voice strummed low and quiet, heavy with warning of his restrained anger. His little wife thinned her lips to a hard smile.

"If you desire it. I know you always gift me with the truth so I should gladly return it to you. I am going to the tavern in the town."

Sandor laughed. "The tavern? Gods above and below, they'll fall off their stools if they saw the likes of you walk in. What could a Stark of Winterfell wish to do in the cesspit of the North?"

She transformed before him, made tall and strong by her determination. He loved her so fiercely in that moment.

_There she is, there's my girl._

Sansa laughed.

"What could any soul do in a tavern? Drink. Talk shit. _Fuck_."

The air seemed thin and brisk. A slip of sweat trickled down the back of Sandor's neck, chased by the cold of winter. Sandor could not doubt what he had heard, for all the rage that frothed behind his eyes and in his brain confirmed it. His body stepped backwards as his mind screamed at him to propel forwards towards the wolf before him.

Sansa laughed, low and bitter. "Are you so surprised? It was you who opened my eyes, husband. You are right. There is no warmth here so I must seek it elsewhere. The tavern worked for you and I trust it shall for me." Her voice dimmed, losing its fight. "I know that I am not what I once was but I hope that I will find one who will have me."

Sandor felt the hound break loose of its bonds within him as he watched his wife's flushed lips speak. Control was lost; he growled at her.

"So a fuck is what you want, little bird? You need not tire your horse for that. I'll take you here on the damn muck floor if that's what you want. Warm you up real nice here in the shit and mud." He stepped forward, slowly, teeth bared, hoping the little bird would take fright and flee back to the warmth of the keep.

Sansa Stark slipped her pink tongue over her lips, nodding.

"Take me, then."


	6. Chapter 6

What had she expected him to do?

Though bitter to taste in her mouth, the truth was that she had hoped he would snap and take her as she ordered. She had wanted him to push her against the wall, to hike her skirts and claim her as his own once more. In return she wanted to graze her teeth across his neck, break his skin and taste the blood and sweat of the man she once thought to be her own.

Instead he had stared at her. His shoulders softened. He blinked, wide-eyed and soundless, then walked out of the stables leaving Sansa alone with her impatient mare.

Frustration battered at the fragile walls within her. She wanted to run after him, scream and shake and rain her fists down upon his broad back. A need for violence was born within her; she held the horse's bridle so hard in her soft hand that it pinched blisters into her skin.

Sansa mounted her horse, catching her skirt on the stirrup and shaking it loose with a growl of annoyance. With a sharp kick she spurred her horse forward, into the yard.

She stopped. She knew not where to do or even if she _wanted_ to go. In the kick she had given her poor horse was the bulk of her anger and desperation. In a breath, she had calmed.

Sansa started to cry.

Leaning forward, arms encircling the neck of her mare, Sansa sobbed.

"Milady?"

Through the blur of tears Sansa could see the young stable hand approach. She wanted to laugh at how absurd she must look but she could not stop the tears.

"Shall I lead you back, milady?"

Sansa nodded, grateful.

The boy, soft-footed and gentle, led the horse back into the stables. With a kind hand he helped the Lady of Winterfell dismount, not minding that her gloves were damp or her breath ragged. Over a square bale of straw he spread a blanket, holey and worn but clean. Sansa sat, embarrassed at her distress but unable to stop the flood of emotion. Quiet as a mouse Jemmy spoke soothing words to the horse as he untacked her and put her to rest in her stall.

Jemmy's soothing words worked to calm Sansa, also, and she felt her body slacken.

"I'd offer me handkerchief milady but you'd not likely want it, for all the holes."

Sansa laughed. "To be fair, I'm not sure you would want me to use it Jemmy. I would make a fair mess of it. Luckily, I have my own." Reaching into her sleeve she pulled out a square of cloth and wiped her face.

"Come, sit by me. What are you doing awake at such an hour, young man?"

Jemmy sat, blushing. "I wanted to make sure he didn't hurt you."

"Who would hurt me? Do you mean my husband?" Sansa froze. "Hush now, Jemmy. He would not hurt me."

"Then why were you shouting? Why are you crying... milady?" Remembering whom he was seated besides, Jemmy quickly tacked his respect to the end of his questioning.

For all her strength and knowledge, Sansa knew not how to answer the boy's question. For a moment she missed her father. He would have known how to talk to such a child.

"I am crying because I feel sad. For a moment, I felt pain. It has passed now. You have made me feel much, much better." Her smile could not withstand the ache in her heart; it faded fast.

Jemmy, perhaps emboldened by his position on the bale, prodded further. "My brother cried once when his girl married a woodsman. It was his fault though. She wanted to marry 'im but he let it sit too long. He still gets pissy if I tease him about it."  
The small boy smiled at the memory. Sansa took his gloveless hand in her own, warming the chill from his fingers.

"Perhaps I'm the same as your brother. What I want I can no longer have."

"Why?"

Sansa paused, thinking. "Let us pretend that you are much older, a man, and you have a farm. Your brother has a farm next to yours, so close that your land shares a stone wall. You have built this wall together and for a long time it has stood strong. As you tend your field you begin to notice a stone has come loose. No matter, you say. After all, the other stones are firm in place and you are far too busy to repair one loose stone. Over time, without notice, a stone here and there crumbles or falls out. You finally see that the wall is broken. Your brother has kicked at the stones on his side and this has caused them to come loose. You feel very angry about this but there is nothing that you can do. If your brother no longer wishes the wall to stand, should you try to mend it? It is better that you accept that the wall has served its purpose and will exist no longer, as sad as it may make you feel."

Jemmy stared at his fingers enclosed in the noble woman's warm hand. His brow was heavy as he considered her words. Slowly, he withdrew his hand and stood before her.

"How do you know that my brother wasn't trying to mend the wall?"

"I don't follow your question, Jemmy."

He shook his head and tried again. "You said that my brother was kicking at the stones on his side of the wall. How do you know that he wasn't just trying to mend the wall on his side? Maybe it was my fault that the stones were coming loose. Maybe it was dry stone and the pebbles had rolled out, or maybe the mortar needed fixin'. You see, I know my brother. He's a prat most of the time but he wouldn't try to topple a wall we'd built together. He'd try and fix it somehow. Maybe he'd kick at the loose stones to try and get 'em back in place. I wouldn't get angry about it milady, I'd just talk to 'im and find out what had gone wrong and what we needed to do to fix the bleedin' wall."

Jemmy bobbed his head at Sansa. "I'm right glad you didn't go out there, milady." The boy with warmed hands walked out of the stables towards his bed, leaving the little bird with much to think on.


	7. Chapter 7

In the dead of night, the Great Hall became a tomb. Within it, shades of life once lived thinned the air. Ghostly webs of spiders shrouded the space where the wooden beams pushed at the ceiling. Wildfire could not warm the walls or those that sought refuge within them. It was at once both suffocating and vacuous.

Sansa found her husband sprawled in a great chair before a dying fire, eyes closed, arms crossed. From the cadence of his breath she knew him to be awake but pretended otherwise, her feet a whisper on the stone as she crept towards him.

Though the flame had taken his face, Sandor was in all a man to be admired. It had been some time since Sansa had paused to look just so upon her husband. She did not ask herself why.

He looked defeated. His lips paled where he pressed them thinly together. Strong fingers were bound in fists, balled under his armpits, red at the knuckles. Sansa could see the beat of his heart in his thick neck. She touched a finger against the pulse; in a breath it was captured by the hot hand of her husband.

Sansa welcomed the crush and rub of his skin against her own though it pained her a little. The fire crackled. The finger was released.

"Warm hands for one just now returned from a night ride."

She ignored him, aware that he knew she had not left the safety of Winterfell. Kneeling, she fed the fire strips of kindling, building it up before blessing it at last with a rotund stump. She felt anxious once her hands were still; Sandor shifted in his chair, pushing back from the heat of the hearth.

"It feels an age since we first came here. The ceiling, do you remember?" She glanced upwards, voice soft. "I could not see how we could live here. All that we had been through - the violence and hunger and fear - only to arrive at a frozen ruin."

"Aye, I remember. Not a tear shed, not for the death of your kin nor for the fear of the beast you rode with, until you reached this place."

She looked up but did not meet his eye. "I was never that afraid of your horse, not enough to spill tears."

"My horse was not the beast I spoke of."

Annoyance prickled at her skin. She did not want to descend into the age old debate about Sandor's humanity. At his lowest he insisted he was no more than a dog; Sansa would then plead with him to believe that he was much more. It always ended with an unsteady truce; with eyes open Sansa would kiss him, silently sending a message of love and acceptance. Sandor would accept the kiss but would not say if he accepted the rest.

Perhaps he was right about himself. Perhaps he was not the man she believed him to be. Had she tried to blend him with a knight from the songs she once loved? Sansa felt foolish and confused.

"Perhaps you are a beast."

She could feel his eyes on her though she dare not look.

"Here's a song I like the tune of. Keep your breath to it, girl."

Sansa thought on the day they had first come together in the woods. They had argued. He had sworn at her, she had laughed at him. He took a step towards her and she did not back away but instead lifted her chin and welcomed his challenge with her eyes. With his breath caught in his chest she kissed him, hard, grappling at his face. There had been no question of right and wrong, no thought of purity or ruin. Where he hesitated, she pushed. He kissed at her hot tears and she hissed at the sting but together they sighed because finally, finally they had worked it out. What drove them forwards was the promise of togetherness. One would not go on without the other. Their bodies hummed in the revelation. Afterwards, he cradled her against his chest and combed leaf litter from her hair.

It was a man who had loved her that day, not a beast.

"What has happened to us?"

Her thought had stolen freedom through a slip of breath. Sandor shifted in his chair, quietened.

The ghosts departed the Great Hall, chilled by the unhappiness of the living.

"You used to tell me such stories when we travelled. I believed them all, even when I guessed you were teasing me. Sometimes I still dream of them. I wish you told me stories still. "

The gruff man snorted. "Look around you, girl. Look at all you have. You don't need an old dog's baying."

"All I see is all I've lost – or was it never mine?"

Sandor stood, pushing his hand through his hair. "I can't bear the riddles, Sansa. Say what you mean or say nothing at all."

Her laugh was bitter, choking. "I'll say nothing, then, for I know not how to speak to you."

The stack of kindling scattered from the impact of Sandor's boot as he kicked out his frustration. He cursed, walked away some before turning back and falling to his knees before Sansa. He reached for her hands but she held them back.

"Speak to me now, Sansa. I'll hear you."

The weapon in her words glinted but she had not the strength to sheath it.

"Tell me about your whore."

He sat back on his heels for a moment in shock then settled on his behind, legs spread and knees high. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his face in his hands.

"Don't take this path, Sansa."

"It was you who chose it, husband. Now we must both walk it."


	8. Chapter 8

Seated on the floor so close to his wife yet unable to touch her, Sandor's soul was drawn back to a memory of a past battle. As men and boys fought and sliced and screamed, Sandor had lain bloody, propped against a muddied cart wheel. By his side, a hare-toothed boy mopped at the blood that streamed forth where the skin had split. The air had been thick, Sandor recalled, thick and alive with the drone of flies and the breath of men fighting to survive but failing. The boy had sucked at his lip as he stitched at the wound; flies flirted with the crust of blood on his knuckles.

Disabled with pain, Sandor could do little but curse and spit at the boy tending to his wounds. Pain birthed frustration. Within him had built a dark energy desperate for release; in madness he almost ripped at the throat of the boy, growling his rage. It was not enough. No matter the will to get up and fight again, his body refused. His heart thudded, his lungs heaved, but nothing more.

The energy within pulsated and pushed as limbs lay heavy, sticky with blood, useless. As the boy finished his craft, as the battle slowed, scalding tears burst forth from Sandor's red eyes and he screamed.

Seated on the floor so close to his wife yet unable to touch her, Sandor wanted to scream again.

He had not the words with which to speak. What could he say to right this wrong? As he moved to rub his heavy hand against his face Sansa withdrew further into herself, her hands wrapped around her waist, her legs bound close beneath her skirts. In her fierce show of stoicism she looked even more beautiful to the scarred, desperate man.

Still, he had not the words with which to speak. He took a leap.

"I was neck-deep in wine, near blind. Barely remember the girl."

She looked at him, commanding him silently. He could not defy her.

"She was bigger than you, coarser too. Thick, loud. Couldn't hold her ale."

"Soft-thighed, you said." Sansa pulled at a thread on her skirt as she whispered.

Sandor stared at the dance of his wife's slender fingers, plucking and stroking. "Aye. That she were, as most women are."

"I suppose you would know."

He smoothed the line of his jaw with the rough pad of his finger. "I suppose I would."

Something wild flashed across Sansa's face and she paused at her plucking. "It was considerate of you to withdraw at the end."

He flinched, unwillingly replaying the night in his mind. Piss drunk, reeking with wine, he hadn't bothered to undress. He dragged his hands, fumbling at frayed ribbon. The woman had been no better, grappling at his laces and humming a wretched tune from the tavern. She had licked at his neck and made move for his mouth but he had pushed her away growling and so she had fallen back, laughing. Half-hard and weak inside he had struggled to thrust into her. Still, she laughed.

Whether it had been the wine or the thought of home that had softened him, he could not finish. Through anger, shame, booze he had succumbed to the lure of sleep; when he'd awoken his purse was full and his britches were laced.

Speaking such words to his wife would do no good. Sandor clenched his teeth and hissed. "I'll not shame you with a bastard."

Like a wild cat Sansa lunged forward, nails scratching across the stone. On all fours, hair glowing in the firelight, eyes flashing, she looked every bit a warrior.

"You'll not _shame_ me with a bastard? Am I supposed to _thank_ you for not spilling your seed in another's womb? How grateful should I be that my husband seeks his pleasure in a tavern? Is there no shame in that?"

"Sansa..."

She withdrew, sitting back on her haunches, tall and proud. "Fathering a bastard would only add to the shame you have bestowed on me. Every corner I turn I hear whispers. They know it all, these people of Winterfell. From the time you stopped sleeping in my bed to the moment you bedded that whore, they know it and they speak of it."

She did not cry though in her shoulders Sandor could see the sign of her sorrow.

"I won't deny the wrong I have done you Sansa."

"You wouldn't dare."


	9. Chapter 9

Stronger than steel she stared at him, near challenging him to speak against her. Within his chest he could feel the hound sniff at the untruths in her speech. It caught a scent; it could not be leashed.

"If I remember rightly, little bird, it was you who bid me leave your bed."

She sniffed, though not with tears unshed. The fire warmed her cheekbones with a soft glow.

"It was for a night, perhaps two. Beyond that you chose to stay away."

"Over a sennight did I come to your door only to find it barred."

The hound scratched at the surface. Sandor flexed his fingers before him and shifted his weight on the hard floor.

"I had reason."

"As did I."

Sandor felt a strange satisfaction as he felt the vile words spit from his lips, like a child breaking the neck of another's beloved doll. Yet as he glanced back up at his wife's face he felt his stomach drop. It struck him suddenly that he had hurt her.

He had not the words with which to speak. He looked away, at his hands, at the floor, at the fire dying.

"This is the man I am, Sansa. I have never hid this from you. Before you, I fought, drank and whored. Might be I'll die doing just that. Whatever purpose you had in trying to save me is now gone, I see that in the way you look at me. You barring your door... fuck, you should have done it five years ago."

The only sound to be heard was the slow crackle of the fire, sending forth the last of its light.

Then, Sansa swore.

"Fuck your self-pity, Sandor Clegane."

It was the way she said it, languid and almost saucy, that made the hound and his little bird break into great peals of laughter, near choking form the absurdity of their situation.

As they calmed and caught their breath, Sandor reached for the hand of his wife. She paused, thought of Jemmy in the stables, and allowed her husband to hold her hand. So he did, gently as though he cradled a starling in his palm. They both stared at the connection, sombre. Sansa broke the spell, though she did not take back her hand.

"I was cross with you. You had stopped coming to our council with the Northern men and you no longer stood by me here in the Hall when the people came to petition for our help. You left me well alone when I needed you the most and yet you still spoke of your misgivings, and loudly. At every step you had something to say against my thinking. I could not bear it any longer. I wanted to punish you, to make you feel lost and frustrated as I did but it didn't work. You didn't come back. There was no apology, no change. You didn't beg or shout your love; you just accepted that the door was closed and moved on."

She finished quietly, with an odd, desperate smile. "When I think on it, you have yet to confess that you love me. Perhaps I have imagined it."

It was Sandor who withdrew from their simple touch, knees cracking as he hauled himself up. He stepped away from the hearth and into the shadows of the room so that Sansa could see only the size of him.

"I'm not skilled in this, Sansa. I don't know what you want me to say. You're the Lady of Winterfell, I'm but her husband. I am not needed in council and you know full well what I'll say to any buggering farmer who comes who to moan about his neighbour. I know my strengths and I chose to work to them, in the yard, with the men and horses. You don't need me to stand next to you and scare them all with this face."

He felt her breath behind him though he did not hear her stand, the faerie that she was.

"You're right to say that I speak out against you. I'll not be thrashed for that. All those other limp dicks will feed you what you want to hear. Might be I'm wrong most of the time but you need to think on both sides before you make a decision. Nobody else will dare to tell you, but I will. I always will."

She stood before him, fair in the firelight, tall and wondrous and alive.

"You barred your door, aye, and after a time I didn't try open it. I didn't seem much point. But I was there, little bird, every night and I fucking curse myself for the one night I wasn't. Seven hells take me if I leave your door again."

Through the thick walls the sound of life crept into the Great Hall. Though still dark, morning was travelling to Winterfell. The little bird looked at her hound, his face dark and creased in the shadow.

"There is much wrong between us, Sandor. I don't know how to forgive you for the hurt you have caused me. I don't know that I want to, though I wish the pain away. There is much we need to share; many words still need to be spoken before we can ever hope to right this. But the fire is near gone and I am weary, so for now let me say that you shall not find my door barred this night."

Sansa turned and walked from the glow of the hearth, leaving the warmth of her words behind her. Like an obedient dog – like a wise man – Sandor followed her.


	10. Chapter 10

Two small blue eyes blinked and softened as the mother's voice sang the serene song of sleep. The glow of the sunset through the twin windows set a dreamy feel to the room in which Sansa cradled her child. The day had been long and bitter though the babe did not know it. Snug against her mother's breast, wrapped and dressed for sleep, the baby bird breathed deep and long. Wren knew the song to be one of slumber, and her eyes fell shut before the song's hero met his fate. She did not wake at the sharp creak of the opening door.

Sansa did not have to turn to know who had entered the room. She could feel that it was him. She ceased her song as her husband approached her.

"She sleeps?"

"Peacefully."

Sandor cupped his daughter's head and felt lost in her purity. That he could sire a child such as this was forever a shock to him.

"I am leaving in the morning."

"I have not forgotten. Hush, hush, little one." Sansa stepped away from her husband and towards her daughter's cradle, placing her child softly upon the blanket.

"I must be a right fool to have agreed to go with the lads. I'll be spending the next week pulling splinters out of fat fingers and smelling piss-soaked bedding."

Sansa offered a small smile. "You know full well that you had no choice. Those boys worship you. Not one would go out into the woods without you." She gripped the frame of the cradle, resting her weight on her arms. Though the cradle had been built with hardwood, Sansa felt she could easily crush it beneath her finger tips. Her grip tightened as her husband stepped closer. She both hoped and dreaded that he would fold his great arms around her and nuzzle at her neck as he did in days gone by, but the bulk of his sin kept the distance between them. He spoke softly.

"I would prefer to be in the woods with my wife."

"Not in the bed of a tavern wench?"

She did not mean to speak such words. It had been days since they had spoken by the fireplace in the Great Hall, days since she had invited her husband back into her bed, days since she had become close with the concepts of forgiveness and reconciliation. Though her heart was aching it still struggled against the bitter, jealous feelings that taunted it. Sansa had promised herself that she would look forward, not back, but found before her a road of broken glass and knife-edged rocks. At times she felt drawn to her husband's side, desiring the intimacy and companionship of her marriage. At other times she felt repulsed by the thought of what he had done and at the coldness with which he had told her. Each moment was a battle that Sansa felt she always lost.

The only comfort was love. There was no doubt in Sansa's mind or heart; she loved her husband and she loved her daughter. For love, she would continue to fight.

In a whisper, she apologised. The scarred man returned her apology, desperate to hold the peace that had settled like cobwebs upon them.

"It is hard to forget, Sandor."

He stepped to her side, holding onto the cradle in imitation of his wife. Gods, but her hands were small. If he relaxed but a little he thought his finger might brush alongside her smooth hand. He breathed in.

"Tell me what I can do, Sansa. I know that the past is out of reach but the future... How can I make this right?"

The rich light of the sunset lent a mystic glow to Sansa's appearance. Her hair seemed to be woven with rose gold, with trickles of caramel spilling loose from her braid. Forgetting himself, Sandor reached to cup her cheek. "Gods above, you are a beauty."

Sansa stepped away before her husband could touch her and make her forget herself. She smoothed her skirts and sought a candlestick before making her way from her daughter's chamber into the narrow hall.

"Sansa, please."

"I think we should see this hunting trip as a blessing, my Lord. My mother often said that time heals all wounds. A week apart should serve."

Sandor pushed the heavy door closed before snapping. "Aye, except the wound of a bastard. Time did shit for Jon Snow."

"It got easier for her over the years."

"Bullshit, little bird. You think I've forgotten all you've told me about the way your mother treated him?"

"We will not talk about my mother in this manner."

"No, we won't. We won't talk about anything. We will just pussy-foot around each other, is that it? The other night, Sansa, I thought you wanted to fix this. You opened your door to me, spoke of sharing and talking but all that has happened is you've become colder than before."

Sansa laughed her frustration, rubbing her wrists as she turned to walk away. A few strides and she had changed her mind, turning on her heel.

"It has been but a week, Sandor. What do you expect of me? I am _trying_, far more than you are. It must be so very hard for you to wait for forgiveness, quietly confident that you will receive it before too long. You don't have to lift a finger, you just have to wait for me to sort through all of this and present a solution to you." Her lip curled as she bobbed her mock curtsey. "Well, my Lord, I am truly sorry, but I have no bloody solution."

Sandor did not stop to let his thoughts dictate his actions. He reached for his wife and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead which felt as hot as a saddle on a summer's day. She stood stiff in his arms, breathing hard.

"Little bird, little bird, come now. Breathe soft and slow." He kissed down her cheek, whispering in her ear. "You've married a green boy who knows nought of a woman's heart. I know only how to cut my way though a conflict and I fear no sword of mine would serve against you."

Sansa felt the right thing to do would be to step away and leave but her body resisted. The heaviness of his arms around her after so long comforted her so powerfully; her mind wandered to the happiness she had shared with him, the familiar smell of his sweat and mouth and skin, the way his lips could both soothe and stir her soul. She cried quietly.

"You think me a Wildling woman that you can win over through capture and kisses."

Sandor grinned. "No lass, I think you a Northerner who has won _me_ over through capture and kisses." He stroked her hair. "I've broken something Sansa and fuck me if I know how to fix it. All I know is that I want to fix it, more than I've wanted anything. I'd do anything, give anything to heal this wound."

Breathing deep, Sansa stepped back. For a moment she chewed at her lip, questioning herself. She reached out a hand and placed it against her husband's broad chest.

"Take your boys hunting, Sandor. A week apart will help us both. Do not think I shall rejoice in your absence, but also do not imagine me to be weeping at the loss. I find it hard to think with you so close."

On the inhale, Sandor felt a numbing fear that he was losing his little bird. On the exhale, he stood tall and winked, turning to the crude humour that he knew delighted his courteous wife.

"Is that right? Are you finding it hard to think right now? Perhaps you could search me out; you might find something else hard."

Sansa laughed, pushing him away. "Come, we should eat. Tomorrow will be quite a day."


	11. Chapter 11

The week crawled by as though a limbless beast, shuffling and pained in the cold. Sansa tried to immerse herself in work to combat the cruel days but this caused her to miss her estranged husband all the more. Though it had been some time since he had participated in a council meeting, Sansa knew that many of her advisers spoke with her husband at their leisure. It had offended her, initially; she clamoured at the opportunity to feel an affront, to feel anything at all apart from the cold emptiness of her bed. With time came understanding and she took offence no more. If her husband chose to attend meetings she was sure that her advisers would speak with him then, in front of her. As it was he had aborted that possibility and thus the men who advised the Lady of Winterfell sought out her husband in the cold of the yard or the heat of the forge.

She wondered what he could tell them that she could not. At that morning's meeting, when the debate grew hot and endless, old Leece stood and suggested that they wait until the return of Lady Stark's husband before deciding on the matter. It took all her strength not to laugh.

After all, she was her mother's daughter.

Instead, Sansa belittled them with her kindness, with her grace and her smile and her frosted voice. She reminded them of to whom they had sworn their allegiance without a single word on the subject. With a nod and a dip, hands gently pinching the lengths of her gown, Sansa withdrew.

In her family's rooms, the days continued to taunt her. Pained by her father's absence, little Wren whined and fought and could find no comfort, not even in the warm, fat bosom of old Frieda. The small girl had scattered her felt wolves and kicked at Lilith when the poor maid had tried to hold her. It was Sansa who bore the brunt of her daughter's tantrums; she held her close as she wailed, singing secret songs in her ear as she swayed and shuffled with her child against her chest. To her daughter she whispered stories of her family, of her parents and siblings, of her husband. She made promises of love and hope and when all else failed she carried her child to her own bed where they both slept, entwined and dreaming of the scarred man.

Sansa knew not how to move on from the great hurt she felt.

The fourth day found her on horseback towards the Winter Town. A child had been born and Sansa welcomed the chance to leave Winterfell, if only for a day, to congratulate the new family with a gift. She had maintained her skills with a needle, stitching a soft blanket for the child. It was gently adorned with silver threaded flowers, perfect for a babe called Flora.

The visit brought her cheer. The small house was clean and warm, smelling of milk and hot bread and lavender. The parents were young, younger than her, and so very happy. She cradled the babe and kissed her brow when she yawned. Sansa pretended that it was she who lived in the small house, who had created such warmth and love, who lived simply but with peace and contentment.

"Holding a child suits you, milady. Your own child must be walking now, talking even."

Sansa smiled. "Yes Mirabelle, she is, with confidence – perhaps too much. It is something indeed to be bossed around by a three year old. She reminds me much of my sister."

The room turned silent at the talk of a Stark long gone. Sansa did not mind. It was in the quiet that she remembered Arya best. Yet Sansa smiled and spoke, polite to the end.

"You have a beautiful child, Mirabelle. I wish you well. Thom, with your permission I would visit again, perhaps in the new month." She rose to leave.

"You are always welcome, Lady Stark. Please, le'me help you to your horse."

Sansa thanked the new father and kissed the new mother on her forehead before leaving. Once mounted, she turned her mare, pausing to tug at her sleeves.

"Oi! Thom, you silly bugger! Where's this babe of yours?"

The voice was loud and full of mirth, yet as rough as the stubble on a man's face. Sansa turned to see the owner. Her heart skipped.

The woman was beautiful, in her way. Her gown was tight and poorly kept, but her face was merry. Her nose was reddened, by the cold or the drink, and she wore a rose stain on her lips.

"Flossie, mind your tongue! Lady Stark has just been 'ere."

Sansa's ears had betrayed her when she had first heard talk of her husband's infidelity. She hadn't wanted to listen but listen she did. Soon she was searching out the tale, finding a satisfying pain in the detail, like scratching at an insect bite. She knew much of the woman whom Sandor had shared a bed, enough to know that she stood before her in muddied skirts.

By the shock on the ruddy woman's face, it would seem she knew just who sat astride the horse before her.

Something inside Sansa took over. She could hear herself speaking, felt her hands tug at the reins, saw the smile on Thom's face and the humility on the whore's.

"Please, Thom, she may speak as she chooses. She could not possibly offend me. You forget that I am married to a man with a much coarser tongue. Farewell."

Sansa turned her horse, begging to take her home before she broke.


End file.
